Crash Course

I became an English teacher out of youthful idealism and an
ambulance director out of the practical necessities of rural life.
Sometimes when I'm dealing with students, I find myself thinking of
them as patients. More often, when I'm dealing with patients, I find
myself thinking of them as students. Their medical problems are so
frequently symptoms of underlying educational problems. Such was the
case with Jerry.

Jerry had been a student of mine in high school. But one night
several years later, he became one of my patients when the truck he was
driving reached a broad curve in Highway 93 at Jocko Hollow and failed
to make the turn. It flew into the southbound lane, crashing head-on
into the car of an elderly couple. The couple's vehicle barely moved
from the point of impact. One second it was traveling 60 miles an hour,
and the next it was still. The pickup Jerry had borrowed bounced aside
and rolled, coming to rest on its roof in the middle of the
highway.

When our six-member ambulance crew arrived on the scene, Jerry was
the first person we reached. He had been thrown from the pickup and was
lying on the highway. As his former teacher, I wasn't surprised to find
him in these circumstances. I stopped long enough to see that he was
conscious and breathing, with no critical bleeding. Then I went to
Jerry's passenger, who was still inside the pickup. The roof had
partially collapsed, and I didn't immediately see a good way to get him
out, but when I shook him, he roused and mumbled. Another attendant
crawled into the pickup to get a better look. I left the truck and ran
up the hill to the car, where two attendants were already busy. The
driver was obviously dead. He was lying across the front seat, wedged
between the dashboard and his wife. She answered questions, but
weakly.

Emergency medical specialists try to eliminate every distraction
possible. The first time I watched a patient in the emergency room, I
was struck by the way the person had ceased being a person. He became a
mass of meat, a set of technical challenges. The head was pulled back
and the mouth held open while a nurse ran a suction catheter through
the cavity, sucking out saliva and vomit. As she did this, others
probed for veins with intravenous needles, treating the skin as if it
were a pin cushion. The respiratory therapist held the jaw open and
slid a tube down the throat, probing for the trachea. Still others
slashed away the man's clothes, tossing the cut rags on the floor amid
the growing pile of wrappers from electrodes, catheters, and
cannulas.

When they gave up, they turned away from the body that lay naked
under the bright lights, tubes sticking out of it. They busied
themselves cleaning up, making notes, and chatting about their shift.
It isn't that they were uncaring people; they had done their best,
giving the man the full benefit of skills honed through hours of
practice. They had a job to do, and they did it. The world depends on
people like them.

People making careers in education often want to imitate the
language and methods of medicine, eager, perhaps, for the credibility
and respect of doctors. But medicine, insofar as it deals with flesh,
is far simpler work than teaching. There are spiritual dangers for
teachers who uncritically accept the methods of science.

If a surgeon wants to talk about objectivity, I'm cautious but not
alarmed.

"We need to be objective," teachers and administrators reminded me
countless times during my years in schools. Is it detachment they have
in mind when they talk about objectivity? The surgeon sees a small
window of flesh, painted with an antiseptic, while the patient lies
unconscious under the sheet. The surgeon's task is technical. He needs
to see vessels and tendons and nerves, and what he needs to see he can
see without love. If he wants to talk about objectivity, I'm cautious
but not alarmed.

But when teachers start saying they must be objective, I wonder.
Sometimes, they mean they need to see clearly; other times, they mean
they need to do the just thing, even when that's hard. I don't take
issue with either. But we must be careful of the ideals we choose.
Chasing the ideal of objectivity has led many teachers to make the
language of behaviorism the official jargon of American education.

When I hear teachers talk about reinforcements and behavior
management, I feel a subversive urge to incite their students to
rebellion. I want to slip into their classes and tell outrageous
stories about heroes who did not adjust to their environments but
warred against bogus limits and won. I want to teach students that we
should talk to each other only in the language of free beings. I don't
want my students to behave, I want them to act, full of will and
intent. I don't want my children managed, I want them taught to will
those things that are good.

Besides, there really isn't room for behaviorists in the world of
schools. Behaviorists are controllers, manipulating the environment,
using various coercions to get students to behave as the controller has
decided they should. Too many people talk about education these days as
though good schools have no need of teachers. What they want are
instructors who will "deliver the curriculum," technicians who will
apply the "interventions" that are currently in fashion, and
facilitators who will "implement strategies" according to their
training.

I don't want my students to behave, I want them to act, full of
will and intent.

Jerry had too many of these kinds of teachers in school, and none of
them helped him much. The specialists took him aside to teach him
skills, which usually meant they gave him worksheets. In his record,
you can read that he received "individualized assistance." What he
heard was, "When you finish this worksheet there are 10 dozen more
ahead." Jerry needed something more.

Good teachers are exemplars. They succeed by inviting others to join
them in the work they love. It is often tentative, haphazard, uncertain
work. And it can be frustrating and lonely, too. But they are
successful because they love what they do.

This, of course, is an idealistic view of teaching. As every teacher
knows, students' problems—their home lives, poverty, and
illnesses—seem so deep and persistent at times that
necessity—the world as it is—threatens to completely
overwhelm idealism. But when youthful idealism runs into life's
practical necessities, one doesn't have to obliterate the other.
Another result could be a kind of mature idealism. The young idealist
tends to overlook life's hardships. But the experienced practitioner,
the seasoned idealist, can draw vigor and strength precisely from those
hardships.

I might not have found Jerry sprawled on the freeway had his parents
and teachers taught him a few simple rules about how to live, about
what is good. If we had done that, I think he would have believed us
and, for the most part, followed our lead. He was a good kid, eager to
please. Schools all across America are decorated with posters telling
young people to say no to drugs and sex and the other problems that
have created markets for posters and workshops. But what these kids
urgently need is folks they trust telling them—showing
them—what to say yes to. We usually let go of bad things only by
grasping better things. When we put our energy into avoiding errors, we
often lose our way. The kid who ignores his falls and stays focused on
his goal learns quickly. The errors fall away.

As it was, surgeons made an incision at Jerry's hip, took the joint
apart, and slid a pin down his femur. In a few days, he was walking.
The owner of the pickup handled the insurance hassles. A public
defender dealt with the legal intricacies. Jerry came back to town, off
the hook, to the only people who were interested enough in him to offer
leadership: the local underclass criminals. They told him what to think
and what to do, and he did it. It wasn't many months before he landed
in the prison at Deer Lodge, after a long series of astonishingly petty
burglaries. He broke into houses and stole jewelry worth pennies.

Jerry did well in prison. His day was structured. People told him
when to get up, when to eat, when to sleep. He spent his free time
making horsehair belts and key chains, following patterns he was given.
He was pleased to have made something. n commentary, teaching
profession

Michael Umphrey, a former teacher and principal, is
director of the Montana Heritage Project, a collaborative public
history program.

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